Dad orders the strip steak and a glass of the 'best tea this side of the Mississippi'. He messes with the waitress for a while, peppering her with questions about the stupid tea.

"Who says it's the best?" he asks, seriously.

"Oh, we're known for our sweet tea."

"What happens if I don't think it's the best?"

"Oh, it's real good. You'll like it."

He looks at the menu, biting his lip, then looks at her skeptically. "I don't know."

"Dad," I hiss. I have started to notice the tiny beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. The restaurant isn't busy, but I know she has better things to do than play games with my dad. "Just get the tea."

"Alright, if you are positive it's the best tea this side of the Mississippi, I'll order it."

A frantic smile comes to her lips, and she scribbles his order down on the paper in her hand. She nearly trips as she tries to get away from our table. I'm guessing she wants to put as much distance between herself and us as possible.

"That was embarrassing. Why'd you do that?"

"She knew I was just fooling around."

"She's probably telling the cook to spit in our food right now."

Dad shrugs, "I'm pretty sure they do that anyway."

I sigh and concentrate on my silverware. He has no idea how much of a burden it is to go out in public with him. Every time we go somewhere, he does something to embarrass me.

"Hey, don't go getting all pissy," he says. "If it makes you feel better, I'll apologize to her when she brings our food."

"Do whatever you want."

Dad reaches over and takes a complimentary sweet potato roll out of the basket on the table. He slathers butter on it and takes a bite.

"What are we gonna talk about?" I say.

He groans, continues chewing and looks around. There are a handful of people in here. Most are caught up in their own conversations, some on cell phones and one lady who is sitting alone, checking her watch every couple of minutes.

"About the other day."

"What other day?" I say. I know what he's talking about, but my dad has always told me to man up. Admit what you've done, right or wrong. I just want him to man up and admit it.

"Fine. You want me to jump through those hoops you hold up, I will. Just remember turn about is fair play." He taps the table with his finger. Ragged nails and tiny cuts that never seem to heal catch my attention. He looks up, almost surprised as the waitress brings our food to the table.

"You let me know if you don't like the tea, ya hear?" she says, placing my huge steak burger in front of me, but looking at my dad. After all the crap he's put her through, she's flirting with him.

"I'm sure it's fine," he says. "You didn't get the cook to spit in our food did you?"

She straightens, eyes wide. "No! Oh, no sir."

Dad nods, looks straight at me and says this, "Good, my son, Rory, was afraid you might have."

I continue fixing the lettuce and tomato on my burger and don't look up. I utter the only thing that comes to mind. "Asshole."

I know he heard it, but he lets it go.

"Rory, you need to lighten up and have fun."

"I do know how to have fun, and how was that fun?"

"Forget it," he says, lifting his glass of tea to his mouth and taking a swig. For a second he appears to be thinking about something serious, then he grins. "Damn if this isn't the best sweet tea."

Rolling my eyes, I push my plate away. "Dang it, Dad, what happened?"

"Christ, Rory, if I knew what happened, I'd have avoided it altogether."

"You made a promise!"

"You make promises all the time and break 'em."

"Not those kinds of promises. I don't understand why you'd even consider having a beer."

He doesn't say anything, just cuts a piece off of his steak. After chewing and swallowing it, he finally speaks. "Remember when you were little, I'd tell you not to get too close to the end of the pier?"

I nod.

"Well, it's like that."

His words mean nothing. He acts like my falling into the creek on accident is the same thing.

"Dad, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Every time you did that, Rory, it was because you were seeing how close you could get to the edge of the pier. You didn't mean to fall in, I know that, but you kept stepping closer and closer. Next thing I'd hear a splash." He exhales loudly. "I wanted to see if I could stop with one beer. That was it."

He isn't looking for my pity. He's not that kind of man. Pity is a wasted emotion according to him.

"So, are you gonna stop?"

He reaches for his tea. "I'm sure going to try," he says quietly.